


we shoot the scene again and again

by alwaysenduphere



Category: Push (2009)
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:29:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysenduphere/pseuds/alwaysenduphere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You go looking into the future you saw last night, rewinding and slow-mo'ing the details so that everything can continue according to plan, when it flashes by, just a small glimpse. It's the worst birthday present you've ever received.</p><p>You can't bring a child up in this world. You won't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we shoot the scene again and again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radiophile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiophile/gifts).



> Cassie is eighteen in this story, but there are mentions of past underage activity.

You see it on the day after your eighteenth birthday in the nicest hotel you've been to in awhile - Nick's been a real big spender for your birthday week, pulled out all the stops. The hangover's pretty epic but mostly well worth it, weeks worth of future dancing easily in your mind's eye. Division has no idea where you are, hasn't for months now, and if that isn't the best birthday present you've ever gotten, you don't know what would be.

Eighteen's a big number, Nick says, but you don't really feel any different, don't really look any different. You thought about buying a new pair of boots, maybe changing your hair. You've been through a few dozen hairstyles since first meeting Nick and sometimes you miss having a little touch of color. 

Nick's already started in with the growing old jokes, donning his best Pinocchio voice and squeaking, "You're a real boy now!" the moment the clock rolled over to midnight. Telling him that he falls under that banner as well will get you nowhere, but you've felt like an adult for a very long time now. Eighteen is just another number, just another day. You indulge him, though. After all, he'll never be able to see how many days you have left.

He shivers when you stumble out of bed, the sheet catching around your legs and exposing his back to the air, temperature set low in the room just the way you like. Everything about last night, just the way you like it. You smile at the memories and slowly make your way to the bathroom, head throbbing and eyes closed against the blinding light of the morning sun shining in through the window.

The shower is warm, scalding almost, water bouncing off of the large glass panes and surrounding you in a warmth that rinses off your hangover funk and ushers back the vague sense of euphoria you've been feeling all week. It's a _very_ nice hotel, and the hot water seems to go on forever and ever, minutes after minutes ticking by as you stand, seemingly endless supply of heat raining down. You go looking into the future you saw last night, rewinding and slow-mo'ing the details so that everything can continue according to plan, when it flashes by, just a small glimpse. Rewind, expand - you can't. The glimpse is all you get, swallowed in a myriad of other minute details of an even bigger picture, but you've seen enough to get the gist.

It's the worst birthday present you've ever received.

You can't bring a child up in this world. You won't.

~

You're pacing a hole in the carpet by the time Nick wakes up, slow flutter of his eyelashes and a gentle stretch following, all the muscles rippling as the blankets slide off him. You've long since gotten over any prudish tendencies you might've had towards his body - first glimpses of him in bed with other women, with you, even with Kira again one fateful night over a year ago. He's strong and sturdy where you're fragile and lithe, his growing number of scars forever protecting your smooth skin. 

You're still naked from your shower, hair dripping a dark pathway across the floor behind you. You freeze the moment he stands up.

"What's wrong?" he says, and he knows you so well, it's annoying. "What did you see?"

Now's your turning point and you're frozen in place. You can see the future but it doesn't help tell you what to do, what to say, what to think. "Death. Destruction. Pain. World-ending."

"Shit," he says eloquently, his entire body language changing in an instant, languid and content shifting into tense and alert, and you can't do it, you can't tell him the truth.

"Relax, I'm kidding," you say, taking a deep breath and tucking some damp, frizzy hair behind your ear. You flop down back onto the bed, trying to let as much tension leave your body as you can as you fall.

He frowns, then pulls the sheet partially back up over you. "Your jokes still need work."

"Yeah well, your face still needs work."

"You love my face."

"Yeah, I do." That's the problem.

~

You're distant from Nick for the next few days, spending all your time in your mind. Despite his occasional idiotic tendencies, you don't take him for one, and you appreciate how much he's trying to respect the boundaries you've put up, boundaries that haven't existed between the two of you in nearly two years. 

He brings you breakfast in bed, offers to do the laundry, even brings you some cheap wine one day, "for clarity," he says. You drink the whole bottle in a shockingly small amount of time and then push him down onto the bed, fingers fumbling in a way they haven't in a very long time, too much to process all at once. You try very hard not to look to the future, focus on every touch, every breath, every kiss you share.

The hotel kicks you out when you run out of money and you spend the next few days on the road, sleeping in train cars and bus stations, curled against Nick for a little bit of extra warmth. You've never been good at boundaries, anyway, every secret anyone ever has popping up in your head eventually like a flashing neon sign.

Two weeks later and you've poked and prodded at it and the glimpse has grown, a little slice of your life in the near future. You've been trying to calculate the exact time, the exact day it happens, considering switching out the condom or fake sickness or man up and march yourself into a clinic for some birth control, but none of those options seem to matter. All paths still lead to you, big as a house, huge belly supported by your tiny stick legs, short black dress and tall black boots on pale white skin.

You start to wonder what the child might be like. After all, you've never met a third-generation Watcher, or Mover - or anything really - before.

~

"How do you feel about children?" you ask, casually as possible, legs still tangled up in his and thin film of sweat still drying on your skin. You don't want to ruin the moment too soon, so few chances for the post-coital pillow talk left in your lives, but the future's not changing and you've gotta test the waters sometime.

"Well, you're still here, so I guess I don't mind them," Nick teases, brushing his fingers across your stomach.

"I'm not a child."

"You were when I met you."

"Thirteen does not a child make, Nicholas."

"Whatever you say, princess." The room grows a bit uncomfortable when you don't reply, and you think you've ruined everything for a moment, but his hand never stops drawing circles on your stomach, and after a few minutes he continues. "I think kids are great. I think I have no experience with them, and a shitty childhood to rely on as guidance. My dad was...he was great, the time we had together was great, and nothing I would do would compare to that."

You don't know what answer you were expecting, but you know without a doubt that his answer is what you needed to hear. The next morning when you wake up and reach out, you're not sure what to feel when there are no glimpses of children in your future. 


End file.
